Reader. Writer. Romantic.

Someone once asked
If I could live with the ire
Of a father who did not care about my life

A man who did not once raise me
But for the hand to rebuke me
A man who expected return for an investment he never made
A man who left my mother to tend to things
Simply because he couldn’t be bothered

And when he realized
When the inevitability of mortality hit
He tried to make amends too late

In my life
Or not
He made no memorable difference in my life
Only succeeding in instilling fear in me
Of his unpredictability

Parents all have their motives
Their way of doing things
That none of us understand until we are in their shoes
But I know that this was not love
That I will never let my children live